


upward the mountain

by marxobodt



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, snk - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Bottom Jean Kirstein, NSFW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2456474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marxobodt/pseuds/marxobodt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is the leader of a travelling caravan, rescuing the underdogs. With him is Marco, Sasha, Connie, and Mikasa. The world ended in 2035, and this is the beginning of a new world. This new world is cruel, and the five learn this the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	upward the mountain

**Author's Note:**

> before reading, i recommend listening to the 8tracks playlist Nevarra by user avalonolava and playing it while you read... it really sets the mood for the story

The world ended in 2035. Or so Marco had been told.

He told Marco stories from B.C, the Before Crisis. Oh, wonderful, beautiful stories. Marco didn't know if any of them were true, he always knew how to weave a story out of this air and build it like a spider spins silk. He told him about flying carts that roared through the endless blue sky like sleek dragons, and words that word carry themselves throughout the air and land themselves in the pockets of a lover, and carriages that ran without horses for miles and miles, and he fell in love instantly.

His name was Kirschstein. Jean Kirschstein. Jean wasn’t the tallest person you would ever meet, his height and build average. He had hazel eyes that lit up when he spoke, and light ash-brown hair cut in an undercut. When Marco wasn’t looking, he wore a scowl as he felt his distaste. His appearance wasn’t much, but to Marco it was plenty. He was the one who saved Marco far after he had long given up hope of ever being saved. Jean already had a group of people like Marco with him. They were outcasts and nobodies, thrown out by their nomadic caravans for small defects and abnormalities. Marco's leg had broke on the trail up the mountain side and was unable to continue on with his caravan. On the mountain in the aspen groves there they left him to die, and so it was there that Jean had found the boy.

Jean liked to claim that when he found Marco that his skin was dappled with dried blood patterned like the light through the aspens leaves and that he shook with the same intensity as their branches, his eyes wet with the same dew that rolled in fat drops on the blades of grass that grew sparse between the groves. Jean liked to make art with his words when things like paints weren't available; the thief artist would tell Marco when he was little he took such pleasantries for granted. Once when Jean was on a trip without Marco and the men asked him of Marco, he told them in beautiful words that his hair was dark, dark like the smooth cinnamon bark of the oldest trees on the mountain, and eyes that were pale brown like the dappled coat of a fawn, and freckles that stood out on his cheeks when he blushed as he spoke, and when he spoke, stars were born. He would tell them that Marco was genuine, and optimistic. The way he spoke about Marco, you knew he was in love.

Marco soon became good with dual blades after he was taken in. Jean taught him, of course, since he was skilled in the art. The others with him had other talents.  
There was Sasha, a willowy girl with thick brown hair she yanked back, and dirtied pale skin, who was death in motion with her crossbow. Connie, a stout boy with skin the colour of pear flesh, and eyes the colour of spiked dirt with a bad reputation and strong arms he used for swinging a mace. Mikasa, whose hair was like the starless midnight sky and her movements full of grace and precision, always paired with her red scarf. Watching her with her long swords was captivating and incredible. When Jean talked about her, he compared her to a deadly cougar, hardly seen before it makes a kill.

Marco often wondered why Jean kept him. He thought that he was nothing special. On his own his skills would ended him up dead, and only the backup of Jean's leadership kept him alive.

When they had brought Marco in, the time of year was when the skies were bright hues of blue in the day and the dusk was rusty shades that cast long shadows. The days were long and hot, but the evening brought rain. Marco was confused. This was the time of year when travel was easiest, so his caravan moved through the mountain ranges and valleys to trade and barter with the villages and nomadic people who live there. He remembered travelling across the soft valleys of this land with his family. 

Here, with Jean, they didn't trade. Jean had told him, in a joking tone, that they were an enemy of most, so it was safer to keep to themselves. A year later, Marco found out that he wasn't so jestial after all.

 

Shoulder to shoulder, Marco stood by Jean with his dual daggers drawn. They turned in circles, moving back to back, tense on their feet. Jean let out a bitter laugh and shrugged his shoulders heavily. Sweat beaded on Marco's brow, and yet he found enough humor in the casual stance Jean had despite the situation they were in to laugh. They were surrounded by men, large men with mangled swords held high above their heads in beastial and warning gestures. They wore little to no armour, but the scars and thickness of their grey skin was intimidating enough.  
The obvious leader of the group was easily a head shorter than the rest, and he wore a helmet, simple but aggressive, it's helm dented and scratched, the metal stained copper with old blood. He lifted his sword as a sign to his men to stand down. They listened, if not reluctantly. Slowly, they lowered their weapons, grumbling in low foreign tones as they did so.

The wind blew, the trees rustling in the tense silence. Jean saluted mockingly, a lopsided smile pasted on his lips. "Hello, gentlemen!" he said. The men moved uncomfortably, looking towards their leader, who removed his helm. His face was contorted by age and battle, and his expression was annoyed.

"My men do not speak the devil's English," he said in choppy syllables. Marco and Jean understood. What they were dealing with was a feared company that supposedly had formed hundreds of years ago and spoke no English, speaking what used to be called Chinese.  
Jean chuckled and took a step towards the leader, and bowed. "I am called Kirschstein. May I ask your intensity what you're called?" 

Inwardly, Marco chuckled. The charming shield that Jean put up was amusing, but he knew that if Jean wasn't careful, not only would they lose the goods that they rightfully stole, but he would end up with his quick tongue cut out of his head. Surprisingly, the man seemed pleased and corrected his stance and nodded his head as if impressed and unused to such formalities.

"You may call me Rivaille," he responded. Almost as quickly as the tables had turned, they turned back. "Now, if we are done conversing, you have something of value that I would like."

Jean's smile faded slowly. He straightened himself and brushed dust that wasn't there from his leather armour. "Ah yes. That."

Jean cast a sidelong glance towards Marco, who stood a pace behind Jean who was decidedly unimpressed by the exchange taking place. "Oh, right," Marco muttered. Clearing his throat, he came to stand beside Jean.

The sun went behind a cloud, and the aspen grove they stood in darkened, and the trees around them seemed to stiffen and hush each other as they listened. Marco flashed a grin, and put a hand on Jean's shoulder. "You must be mistaken, Mister Rivaille, sir." He said, sheathing his dagger.

"My companion and I have no goods of any kind of value to you; it's mostly fabrics for our families, with the cold seasons nearing and all. You understand," Marco paused, seeing Rivaille raise an eyebrow at him.

"You must know how terribly difficult it is to stay warm when it snows! Ah! I've an idea. Here." Marco turned and pulled a square of silk and cotton from the cargo behind him. "This is the only thing of value we have, but if you would be so kind to let us to continue home, you may have it. No trouble! No bloodshed! This silk is yours if you and your men don't give us any trouble."

Rivaille snatched it from Marco's grasp and sniffed it cautiously. "This silk- this is worth at least 100 silvers. Where did you find this?"

Marco pursed his lips and feigned a sigh. "A whole soveriegn, yes, I know! Could feed a family of 4 for a month.It was my grandmother's, in fact, but as I said. It's yours. Free! If you leave us with no problems." Marco tilted his head at the tall man, his brown eyes glimmering. Jean beamed at Marco and nodded in agreement. With a grunt, Rivaille shoved the cloth into his breast pocket.

"Very well. Me and my men will leave you." Whistling, he turned, and his men turned as well in response. They marched off, and after several long moments when they were no longer visible along the trail, Jean turned to Marco and let out a genuine laugh. In truth, the piece of fabric had been the cheapest thing out of their haul.

"Fantastic!" He cawed, hitting his thigh. "Absolutely brilliant, you are. You are absolutely brilliant at acting, Marco, see that's why I pay you."

"You don't pay me at all, Jean."

"Well, I couldn't afford you!"

Marco chuckled under his breath, shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair. The sun started to peek from behind the cloud, and long shadows ran slowly across the mountain sides that stood above them, towering like giants. The position of the sun told them that it was mid-day, perhaps two. If they didn’t get going now, they wouldn’t get back to camp before nightfall. Reminded of this, they began to tie down the cloths and chests in their wagon. Skillfully, they pulled and tied knots and adjusted the haul so it would all fit and not fall out when they began to continue up the rocky road through the aspen grove.

Jean pulled from out of his breast pocket a compass, and tilted it to face the sun. The light of the sun reflected from the faces smooth glass, and the needle spun frantically for several seconds before coming to rest on South-West; Grinning, he shoved it back to where he had pulled it from.

“If we make good time, and the weather stays the same, we should get back before supper.” Jean said to Marco, squinting in the light of the sun, who had now come to reside in a sky without a cloud. Marco adjusted his fingerless gloves and nodded towards Jean. He heaved himself onto his horse, a tame speckled palomino mare, which looked minuscule compared to Jean’s horse, a brown Clydesdale that bowed to allow Jean to climb onto her back.

Ymir, the Clydesdale, whinnied softly and shook her mane. Soothingly, Jean clicked his tongue and adjusted her harness. Marco glanced towards Jean before he pulled the reins, and his own horse, Historia, trotted forward, pulled it’s individual wagon behind it. Jean and his mount followed closely behind.

The sun moved slowly across the sky, time moving slowly as they inched their way across the land. They travelled in comfortable silence, listening to the birds sing to each other from across the sky.

It was evening when their camp came into view on the horizon, the sun behind it along the mountain ridges, dipped behind as day died and night rose itself in sorrow. Their camp itself was little more than a overly glorified village; the shops were made like tents, large sticks making the frame and the frame covered with hides and skins that at the end of a day were taken down. The houses themselves were old houses from B.C that they had fixed up and rebuilt and expanded. There were roads weaving between the shops and houses made from cobbled stone and packed dirt, and it was small. It was small, but it was home. 

The smell of smoked pork assaulted their noses as they led their horses into the camp. Several people peeked their heads out of open doorways and waved at them as they passed. Nodding at them in acknowledgement, they made their way down to one of the farthest houses, one of the oldest. 

Unlike most of the others, their house was two stories. On account of this, the rest of Jean and his gang lived here. In this society, there were gangs and groups that operated outside of the villages they lived it; most people did their own trading and their own business. Jean was the leader of his group, and despite his guild members having more seniority over him, Marco was the co-leader upon Jean’s request.

As they came up to the house, they slowed their horses to a stop and jumped off the backs of their mounts. From where they stood, they led the horses by foot to the stables behind the house.

The stables were freshly cleaned and smelled like musty hay. Marco put Historia in her stall, which was open so that the gentle mare could go into Ymir’s pen. The two horses got along really well and whenever possible stayed by the others side, they would. Ymir wandered into Historia's pen absently, and the two neighed at each other and nuzzled their noses into each others necks fondly. 

Marco put his hands on his hips and sighed, watching them. From behind him, Jean clapped a hand on his back and walked out of the stables. Marco trailed behind him, latching the doors to the barn and walked towards the house.

Candles were lit inside, and the warm glow illuminated the window frames. They could hear voices chattering and plates hitting the table as they got closer. The wind was cool as the night settled in and the sounds of darkness arose. Coyotes howled to each other in the distance and bull toads sang in a nearby pond.

The door swung open for Jean and Marco before they reached the step. In the door frame was an overly excited girl who wore a giant grin. Her brown hair fell in tired tendrils around her face, loose from the leather cord that was supposedly holding it back. Laughing, she jumped into Marco’s arms and hugged him around the neck.

“Sasha!” Jean said, appalled. “I thought we had decided that I would be the one receiving the hugs first!”

Sasha untangled herself from Marco and held back fits of laughter. “I’m sorry, cap’n.” she said, snorting as she saluted him mockingly.

Jean smirked as he wrapped his arms her waist and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour while Sasha squealed and kicked her legs. 

“Would-a captain do this, ye scalawag?” he said in a silly voice and carried her over the threshold. 

Sasha kept laughing as he threw her onto the couch and began to tickle her. Marco shook his head and stepped in and closed the wooden door behind him. In the open kitchen area to the right as he walked in stood a girl with black hair. Mikasa nodded in a greeting and went back to cutting carrots and putting them in a wooden bowl.

“Hey!” a voice boomed from behind them in the stairwell. A stout boy stood at the top of the stairs, glaring menacingly at them. Jean and Sasha stopped and stared back at him nervously. 

“That’s my job, Kirschstein, let me show ya how it’s done!”

He ran down the stairs, his feet thunking heavily on the steps as he went down. 

The sounds out laughter continued as Connie, the boy, started to tickle Sasha and Jean tackled Connie. Marco joined Mikasa in the kitchen, and quietly picked up a knife and began to cut peppers beside her. She wore a faint smile, the echoing sounds of the adults in the sitting room amusing to her. Marco glanced at her as he cut the vegetables. 

“What’s so funny?” he murmured softly, absently scooping the pieces of pepper into his hand and dumping them into the bowl.

She cleared her throat, and looked up at Marco, putting her knife down. “I just think it’s sweet.” she added, answering Marco’s question. “It just seems nice that despite them all being hurt that they’re able to play like children.”

Marco chuckled. “Really, they are children. I wouldn’t go as far as to say they’re adults. They act more like they’re 7 rather than 20. Look,” he pointed towards the couch, where Connie was now yelling and throwing himself on top of Jean, who was scowling and grumbling angrily. 

Mikasa hummed in agreement and took the wooden bowl and began to toss the salad in it. Marco turned and grabbed a jar of watered down vinaigrette that him and Jean had gotten a few months back from a pair of traders who stayed the night in their stables; the dressing was part of the collateral and payment. 

Soon, the group had settled down and sat at the table, eating. Or as calm as they could get. Sasha and Connie were snickering and rolling cherry tomatoes across the table to each other and flicking peppercorns into Jean’s eyes while Mikasa stared at them icily until they stopped. 

“What took you guys so long to get back?” Sasha asked around a mouth full of bread. Connie threw back a swig of water and shook his head enthusiastically. 

“Sasha, shut up! He was probably making out with his boyfriend!” him and Sasha burst into fits of amusement.

“Hardy-har,” Marco said, rolling his eyes, despite that he was blushing, which didn't evade the two trouble makers radar.

“Look! His face is red! Oh my Divines, he has so many freckles.” Sasha twittered. Jean huffed, annoyed and hit a fist on the table.

“Sasha, stop! Our relationship isn't a joke, for one, and two, no, we were not, we were ambushed by the infamous Rivaille.” at that, Sasha shut up. “Yeah, not so funny after all?” he grumbled to himself and began picking at his bread.

“Wait- what?” Mikasa said, leaning forward in her chair, looking back and forth between Marco and Jean. 

Marco shrugged and attempted to evade conversation by hiding behind his wine glass and refusing to make eye contact. Jean cast a look and Marco and heaved his shoulders in an almost frustrated way. 

“I don’t know Mikasa, it wasn't that big of a deal? He stopped at us and his men did a freaky sword dance and then we gave him silk he thought was expensive and off he went.” 

Mikasa opened her mouth to speak, but she was cut off by Jean’s chair scraping against the floor as he pushed himself back and stood. The rest of the table stopped and looked up at him, lettuce hanging out of Connie’s mouth.

“Is anyone ready for a story?” Jean said, his eyes scanning the faces of everyone sitting. The flame of the candle in the center of the table swayed gently. Marco grinned and nodded, and Sasha squirmed excitedly as the previous tension wore off in the excitement of another one of Jean’s stories. 

“Could it be the one about that bad-ass chick who broke the heart of every boy ever and was a captain of a ship and is the COOLEST!?” she exclaimed.

“No, dammit, Sasha! The one about the gladiators fighting each other is even cooler!” Connie interjected.

“I think the story of what happened with Rivaille would be even better.” Mikasa added coolly.

 

“I think it’s actually Marco’s night to choose the story.” Jean said, turning to face Marco. 

Marco dismissed this with a wave of the hand, and began clearing the table. Connie and Sasha got up and made their way to the living room, and collapsed on each others laps on the armchair beside the couch. Mikasa wandered in after them, and perched herself on the edge of the fireplace which was across from the couch. The living room was small, the only things in there the couch, armchair, and fireplace. In the summer, the mantle was covered in candles. 

Marco and Jean sat beside one another on the couch, and Jean put his arm around Marco’s shoulder, and a blush grew in Marco’s cheeks. 

“What story was it that you wanted, Marco?” Jean said, turning his head to look at Marco. Marco tilted his head at him and gnawed his lip. 

 

“Can it be the one about the champion, the warrior, the king and the lion-heart, and the three years in between?”

Jean let out chuckle and looked at Marco with a certain fondness that warmed his heart. 

“Of course.” he cleared his throat, “It was after the disease that ended the world previous, and before ours began…”


End file.
